(link)
the roughly two inches of depth that Martin allows as pans for the sifting of images, cultural gold, and perhaps owing to Beckman's claustro-orgies, updating that era's expressionism is for this one's iPhone sheen, both's cultural unconscious brought up and pressed against the glass for our peering zoological efforts. The "shreds of childhood half-memories made manifest, and fleshed out with so much lurid detail that it feels confrontational" with the images we have internally seared into us, cultural echoes rattling around inside your head's quiet moments occasionally materializing from the noise of your brain a jingle from 30 years ago. What we are forced to carry and not sure exactly what the surrealists were planning as the point of irrupting the subconscious onto the page when it seems to be a lot like dredging some kind of horrible cultural sewer pipe and we cramming snakes into it.
See too: Emily Mae Smith at Rodolphe Janssen, Quintessa Matranga at Freddy
